When my son died, I believed I had buried my entire future with him. People talk about grief as if it fades slowly, like a storm moving away from the coast. That’s not how it works. Some days it softens. Other days it arrives all over again, sharp and sudden, like the first moment you hear the news. Five years ago, I buried my only child. His name was Owen. Even now, saying his name still feels like holding something fragile in my hands. Most people know me as Ms. Rose — the kindergarten teacher who keeps extra crayons in...
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